


The Devil In Me

by MaraMcGregor



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Dark, Drinking, Flashbacks, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaraMcGregor/pseuds/MaraMcGregor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,<br/>Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt,<br/>It lies behind stars and under hills,<br/>And empty holes it fills,<br/>It comes first and follows after,<br/>Ends life, kills laughter.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil In Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



_“It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,_  
Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt,  
It lies behind stars and under hills,  
And empty holes it fills,  
It comes first and follows after,  
Ends life, kills laughter.”

 

He couldn’t sleep. It didn’t matter that he was living in an apartment on the other side of town. Every breath echoed in his chest, each taking just a little more warmth with it. He wanted to blame this town, the supernatural, the _werewolves_ for his loss, his pain, his loneliness. Chris rubbed a callused hand on his chest, hoping to soothe the gaping hole. But it never went away.

He felt the loss of his wife more keenly than the loss of his sister. He had come to terms with his sister dying a violent death years before. She had always been the wild card, the one who laughed as the light vanished. Allison told him how his wife received the bite. He wanted to hate Derek and Scott, shred them apart with every last ounce of energy that he had in him. But he couldn’t seem to force himself to. He spent hours listening to the clock tick in the living room. Each second another he had been without his wife. At points, he could blame Gerard for her death. If it wasn’t for his presence, perhaps the resolve to kill herself would not have been so strong. But in the end, he knew who held her and the knife. He knew who _ensured_ she plunged it into her heart, deep and true. He was the one with blood on his hands.

In this twilight world he had stepped back into, he knew that she could have found her control, found her anchor. She was the strongest woman he knew. There was no need for her to die; just blind prejudice and hatred. She could have lived, raised Allison. If teenaged boys could find it within themselves to carry on through all of the supernatural horrors, surely they could have made it work.

He stopped rubbing his chest and looked at his hands. They looked clean. Every piece of dirt was scrubbed meticulously out from under his fingernails. Trimmed and manicured. It didn’t matter what they looked like. He could still feel the warm, slick blood slide through his fingers. His father didn’t know that he had pulled the knife out, pressed his hands against her chest and begged any deity above or below to let the werewolf healing take over. Let her come back to him. He hated himself for it, for his weakness. Then, he condemned himself for not loving her enough to see past the claws and fangs and glowing eyes.

His eyes shifted to the door. He needed to do something with his blood-stained hands. Standing up, the cold seeped through the wood floors and chilled his feet. Stepping solidly and surely, he walked towards the kitchen to find something warm to drink. It may only warm him physically, but anything was better than this frozen nothingness consuming him from the inside out. Chris filled the mug with the coffee he left brewing. Dark and bitter, it seared his throat as it made its way down to his core. It was an odd feeling, so cold, yet so hot. He could almost trace where the coffee was and everything around it below zero.

Two steps to the right and he could see down the hallway. The light was on in Allison’s room. Another failure. What the three _children_ had to do, to sacrifice, to save their parents was unconscionable. She hardly slept through the night any more. And the nights she did, she had Isaac’s company. He wanted to drag Isaac through the same terror he had dragged Scott through. He longed to haul him out by his fangs and pointed ears and hurl him down the stairs, hopefully hitting every one and leaving bruises that would last longer than a handful of minutes. But, those days that followed, Allison’s eyes looked brighter. No matter his opinion on her choice in company, Isaac helped and healed in ways he hadn’t been able to in long months.

Chris took one more glance at the clock. There were still a couple of more hours until the bars closed. Maybe some stupid, reckless act was what he needed. Maybe he could find something to plug the gaping, seeping wound in his chest for a minute or three. Quietly, he placed the half-full cup of still steaming coffee into the sink and walked towards the door. Allison was a big girl, maybe if she heard the door close she would call the damaged werewolf and get some actual rest tonight.

 

* * *

 

Peter sat, staring at the TV screen. Scott, his pup, a True Alpha. A growl worked its way up his throat. He didn’t want the bite, spent months complaining about it; and now, he _ascends_ to be the best of the best. He is the most powerful Alpha and he does absolutely _nothing_ with it. His gut twisted. He lied – often and happily - when he said that Derek reminded him of Scott. Really, every time he looked at Scott, he saw Talia. It was sickening.

His flashbacks were getting worse. The way Scott held himself oozed confidence and power. His movements were graceful, controlled. If he caught Scott out of the corner of his eye, he could almost swear it was Talia standing there, strong and firm.

That was all it took and he was back in the fire, burning. He could smell the burning flesh and fur of his family. The screams of terror and the coughs as lungs filled with smoke. Rafters from the main floor fell through to the cellar, separating him from his wife and newborn. He tried to launch himself through the fire, but the gasoline those laughing henchmen threw through the bars brought the temperature to unbearable levels. His baby was squalling, his wife covering her face and trying to get as low as possible.

It was then, when everything was burning that it became a true Hell. The wolves who had been covering their human family members started choking and hacking. Eyes glowed yellow. Fangs and claws grew. Peter was choking on not only smoke, but wolfsbane. Wolfsbane smoke was filtering in through the small window of the cellar. His healing was no longer up to the task of fighting the fire. He reached one last time through the blaze, his right side puckering and splitting. His peeling and melting fingers touched his baby’s face; but it was lifeless, the smoke too much for the small wolf to handle.

Yanking himself away, he crawled to the long-sealed tunnel door and slammed his unburned left side against the crumbling infrastructure. The heavy boards gave way under the heat and his battering. He clawed his way through the underground tunnel system, swearing vengeance with every gasp of breath. He would rip and tear and rend the guilty ones to pieces for what they did to his family, his wife, his _baby_.

His body gave out at the exit of the tunnels. He couldn’t breathe, the wolfsbane saturating his lungs and poisoning his open wounds. Darkness closed in and clouded his vision. It would be another three years before the darkness started to recede. Three after that before he could implement a plan to take what was rightfully his and make that hunter _bitch_ rue the day she had ever come to Beacon Hills.

The TV entered sleep mode, leaving him in the dark of his apartment. The change in light and sound brought him back to the present. Kate Argent was dead along with all of her hired help. Amusingly enough, the chemistry teacher who gave her the knowledge of how to set a fire and get away with arson was ritually sacrificed by the Darach, Julia, Jennifer … whoever – he didn’t really care.

It was moments like this that he wished he could get drunk, that he cursed his werewolf metabolism. Drinking himself into oblivion was exactly what he wished he could do. The bitter taste of ash lay on his tongue and seared his nose. He would never get rid of it. The memories and horror was still as fresh as if it had happened minutes ago. He would have to find some other vice to sink his teeth into. Hopefully, literally.

 

* * *

 

The bar was dark, dirty and musty. Chris sat with a dram of whiskey, clenched in his fist. It was his third. He was thinking he should start ordering large drams, but he wasn’t sure if the bartender had any idea what that measure would be. He glared at the magnified stains under his glass. Maybe he would just order two and pour them together. It would save time.

The whiskey burned in a way coffee didn’t. It didn’t really get rid of the cold in his veins, but it certainly numbed them. He signaled the bartender for two, which neatly arrived just as he put his hand down. The grizzled man behind the bar didn’t even take two looks at him. It was a convenient choice to come to this hole in the wall. No one here was rushing home. Everyone was trying to bury some part of themselves in alcohol or sex – or both. Chris didn’t care.

With his right hand, still holding the glass, he wiped his face. Doing a quick mental check on how much he had drunk, it wasn’t really a surprise that his face had gone numb. He rubbed his nose with his free hand and confirmed his suspicions; he was well on his way to being plastered. He knocked back the whiskey and set the empty glass back on the bar. He was just about to raise his fingers again, when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. A predator had just walked into the bar, and considering most of those in this town were in high school, that only left Derek or Peter.

Chris’s eyes slid left. Sure enough, Peter Hale was strutting into the bar, calm, collected and far too confident for a borderline Omega. His pack didn’t trust him with them and definitely didn’t trust him when he wasn’t present. The man was manipulative, conniving and all of the poor attributes he associated with his father. With that disturbing thought, Chris raised his two fingers again for more whiskey.

He felt the smug bastard slide onto the stool next to him. Knocking back his self-made large dram, he glared at the wolf to his left. “Go away.”

Peter’s nostrils flared, inhaling the scent of alcohol wafting from the hunter. “Why? It looks like we both came here for the same reason.” He raised a finger at the bartender and indicated towards Chris. A neat whiskey slid its way down the bar.

Chris snorted into his empty glass. “We both know it’s pointless for you to be in a bar.”

“Only if getting drunk is the point.” Peter grinned, teeth glaringly white.

The hunter’s fingers fumbled over the glass. “And what is your goal tonight?”

“Much more pleasurable vices than destroying your liver and killing brain cells.”

Chris looked at the man. His dark subconscious was whispering in his head. He came here to do something reckless, something to stop the ice. Getting drunk was nice and numbing, but maybe Allison had the right of it. Maybe there was something in these wolves that could pound away the darkness or fill it with their own. Chris blinked, hard. He was way too drunk if he was looking at Peter Fucking Hale as a potential sex partner.

Peter’s grin just grew. He could smell Chris’s attraction. It was well disguised below the overall depression and alcohol, but it was there. It wouldn’t take much to get the hunter beneath him. The wolf figured it would be mutually beneficial. Chris looked deep in self-loathing and Peter needed to find someone to take his aggression out on who could handle it. That this was an Argent was delicious. He could almost taste the sweat, the blood … the tears.

Chris let the glass go. What was the point of leaving the apartment if he was just going to get drunk. He could have done that at home. He _would_ have done that at home if he had to hear Isaac and Allison go at it. He knew she wasn’t a virgin. He wasn’t stupid, or naïve. But, there were some things he just didn’t want to listen to. He leaned back, away from the bar and turned towards Peter. He knew exactly who and what he was dealing with. Peter was a self-serving, egotistical psychopath. He mentally shrugged, nothing he wasn’t used to dealing with. “Let’s be clear. I can’t stand you. And, I don’t trust you not to kill me in my sleep.”

The werewolf’s grin turned feral. “Duly noted. The feeling is mutual.”

The alcohol was flowing through his bloodstream. The liquid coating his tongue and brain. He knew this was stupid. He knew he should walk away. Or, put a bullet in Peter’s head, then walk away. That’s not what his mouth said, though. “What are you running from that you would be here, with me?”

Peter’s clear blue eyes darkened. His eyes narrowed, examining his prey for any deceit or manipulation. Finding nothing more than general dislike, he huffed. “Getting rid of the taste of ash and burned flesh.”

Chris’s face briefly contorted; then smoothed out. He would not let this brand of creature know how deeply that crime cut him. It was what started his life in a downward spiral. If Gerard and Kate had cared one iota about the code, two families would still be whole. Allison showed she had the same ability to fall into irredeemable violence on the hunt for vengeance. It was something he wondered about himself. He always held tightly to the code, to honor. Once clear lines were blurring more and more lately. The heroes of Beacon Hills were the werewolves, the monsters, the things that went bump in the night. More often than not, it was the hunters over-stepping their bounds and causing more problems than fixing. The guilt came back like an unrelenting flood. It chased the pleasant numbness of the alcohol from his system. The hollowness was traceable as it worked inwards from his extremities. Before it could find its home back in his gut and heart, he waved the bartender down again.

The glass came sliding down the bar, the double measure already poured together. Chris nodded his thanks before taking a large sip of the liquid fire. Peter’s eyebrow quirked, neither the expression nor the reaction had gone unnoticed. Damn.

Peter casually leaned against the bar and sipped on his glass of whiskey. “You know, physical exertion has many benefits. The release of endorphins and adrenaline can leave you in a much better state than anything found in one of these bottles.”

“And how long will that last?” Chris asked, cynicism clipping his tone and sharpening it, hoping to rake that smug look off Hale’s face.

Peter just smirked. “If done right, at least until you wake up. And if done really right, until the pain fades.”

Chris wished he could say that he wasn’t tempted. He wished he could say it was the whiskey. But, down deep, where the ice made its home, he wanted this. He _needed_ to feel again. He almost suggested they go to the nursing home he stashed his father in and let Peter fuck him senseless in plain view of the old man. Something dark and unnamed clawed its way up his spine. His mouth twisted into a wicked smirk.

Peter stood from the bar and opened his wallet. Chris’s smirk grew as he noticed Peter made sure to only pay for his one drink. The hunter slapped a couple of hundreds on the bar. “Let’s do this.”

For the first time, the darkness didn’t chill him to the bone. It felt like he was walking straight into Hell.

 

_“I’ll bury you on Sunday. You are the Devil in Me.” – Gin Wigmore_


End file.
